


Not My Least Favorite Life

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Johnny and Dora [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Television Watching, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake and Amy sit on the couch and watch the season two finale of True Detective. Amy catches a sad from it because her life is in such a good place right now and the show ends on such a down note. Jake works hard to make her feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not My Least Favorite Life

**Author's Note:**

> Brooklyn 99 isn't mine but I love it. And have done enough research that Google has reset my settings to Brooklyn :P And yeah... TD season two is freakin' misery defined.

Even in the safest and most comforting place she can imagine, curled in the crook of Jake's arm on the plaid, ugly couch in Gina's old apartment that's so tiny it can't help but be cozy, Amy cannot help but tear up at the season two finale of True Detective two. She's late to the party--the professional lives of real detectives kind of demand that their binge watching of media content be done around the edges of the murder and mayhem that prances merry on the broadway of their workplace--but has always loved cop shows like Homicide or Miami Vice and found the first season of True Detective a really intriguing take on the genre. It's a little melodramatic, after all it seems to her like a police detective's real arch-nemesis is probably hypertension and not some mysterious King in Yellow, but the characters are great and Rust is as great a box man as she's ever seen depicted.

This, though? It's just depressing as shit and has kind of made her need a cigarette. She's been trying to quit and hasn't had one, apart from what Rosa calls "that dumb ass little e-cig," since Christmas except for one on the night of Valentine's Day. That one had been... yeah. That had been kind of necessary. 

Jake tugs softly at one of the long, dark curls escaping her ponytail. "Hey, girlfriend... we okay?"

"Yeah," she says. "No. Trying not to cry. I'm an ugly crier."

He disagrees--she knows he will, it's practically a great boyfriend's job--but she is the world's ugliest crier. Her face screws up into a weird configuration, her skin turns blotchy and horrible things happen within her mucuos membranes that are like a terrorist attack. "See?" he says. "Gorgeous like you always are."

She pouts. "And now you're mocking me."

"Ladies and gentleman," he says, "'And Now You're Mocking Me,' Detective Amy Santiago's best selling sex tape!"

She smacks his arm. "Yeah, the one co-starring you."

He captures her small fist in his own. "I can't help that I have a natural talent for comedy. It's in my blood." She settles back against him while the credits keep rolling. "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong, cutest ugly crier in the world?"

"Remember how I said that the pit-bull selling crack to the homeless guy in Red Hook was the saddest thing I'd ever seen?"

"Yeah, and I told you it was as big a victory for capitalism as it was a failure in the war on drugs."

"Maybe. I was wrong anyway. This was definitely sadder. The last episode of this show. Jeez that was fucking miserable."

She can see he's taken aback. Amy doesn't ever say things like that. Every other cop in five burroughs might swear a streak bluer than their class A uniforms but Detective Santiago doesn't even trash talk skells with anything more vicious than a particularly biting "yo mama so fat" joke that she usually apologizes for right after. As ever, Jake falls back on humor. "A, that's going to be the title to our sex tape's sequel--there will be no argument about this, although I may consider 'Jeez That Was Miserable Fucking: A Spike Lee Joint'--and B, what was so bad about it?"

Her huge, brown eyes grow even wider as if to ask how he could even be asking such a thing. "You're serious. Seventy-five percent of our main characters are dead and you're even posing the question."

"I am, yeah, because they died but they died winning," he says. "They died but good."

"Is there really such a thing?"

"Well, yeah." He wraps his other arm around her. She finds that they don't go as far as they should, wonders if she's getting a trifle chubby from too many platters of chicharrones de pollo at Puerto Viejo, or a few too many nibbles on roast pork and maduros at Cubana Social or spicy roasted corn Habana Outpost. She'll need to take up running once more, with Captain Holt, or even lifting one tenth of what Terry does. She would think of MMA classes and sparring with Rosa again but... she had never felt so much like the YMCA's welcome mat as she had after that one fateful night.

"Well, okay then," she says. "If that's dying good then what's an example of dying bad? Tell me that one, smart guy."

He scrunches his face up in the way she finds super cute. "You might not like it."

"Hey, I'm a tough chick. My first DB was that third rail jumper in the rubber pants. He kinda, you know..." She mimes it with her hands, thinks back to the day that she and a young Officer Boyle had found the guy burst like a Lumberjack brand sausage dog left in the microwave too long. She'd been okay, mostly, though not able to stuff her face on scene with a meatball hero from Lioni's like Norm Scully, but Charles had left his raw umfitit in a steaming pile on the sidewalk. The scene had offended him, he said later, both as a man and a foodie.

"Okay," Jake says. "So here goes. Here's an example of dying bad. Although, come to think of it your rail jumper might have kind of made my point for me. Yeah. Anyway, say you have terminal constipation and terminal diarrhea at the same time, because you were holding it because it was the middle of an all day Die Hard slash Lethal Weapon marathon and you've lost your remote so you can't pause, and then you eject the entire contents of your body from your haunted butthole in an orgy of russet horror." He pauses to catch his breath before going on. "You must admit that, in the grand scheme of things, compared to going down in a blaze of glory to protect your lover and new baby that it's a pretty, pun absolutely and totally intended, shitty way to go."

She blinks her huge brown eyes at him before bursting into giggles. "Jake... you are twelve years old."

"Ha, and you love it." He goads her, speaking in a sing-song voice. "Amy loves a twelve year old, Amy loves a twelve year old." He pauses. "Am I gonna have to arrest you for that like one of those blonde teacher ladies?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," she says. "You'd only get one conjugal visit per week and I think you'd probably get pretty lonely."

"What about you? Wouldn't you get lonely? For mah body?" He waggles his eyebrows in what she imagines is supposed to be a suggestive fashion.

She sniffs primly. "I'd be fine. I'd have a new girlfriend named Large Marge within the week--a month at the outside most. You'd be nothing but a memory, a way to get cigarettes to trade with me new, er... homies. My chicas. Yeah."

"You know," he says, "even as badly as you're mangling that whole Orange is the New Black thing, there, it might be the hottest thought... ever. I'll just be, um... I'll just be sitting back and thinking about that for a few minutes."

"You know you will."

"Yeah, I literally just said that."

"Yeah," she says. "Um... so... you do that then." They lapse into a comfortable silence. "Speaking of, we ought to watch that next."

"Sure, but not tonight. I've got plans for you, you desperate criminal." 

"I've got to be the desperate criminal?"

"Well, you started it." The silence descends again and she rests against him. She thinks of the lyrics to the song by Lera Lynn that played in a few episodes, the one that is now in a near constant rotation on her iPod. "This is my least favorite life," she had sung, "the one where you fly and I don't." It struck her that she was so happy, so deliriously happy, that she couldn't imagine a life better than the one she was living unless maybe she had fallen into it even earlier. The kisses they shared tasted of honesty and kindness, with no hint of deceit nor taste of cruelty, and she knew that they would never hurt each other. This is the best of all possible lives, one she'll hold onto until her fingers turn white with the pressure of it like she had the blankets on cold mornings when she hadn't wanted to go to school, and she knows that he will too.


End file.
